


Party Down

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Claustrophobia, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Tension, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: “I must say, Malcolm, it really is exciting to see you in action when you aren’t threatening to kill me in whatever creative way your word a day calendar suggests for you.”“Shut it,” he says, sitting down on an upturned bucket. “Here’s what I need and God help me, apart from Sam, you’re all I’ve got. My boys are all out there completely wankered and more useless than a cactus dildo.”Malcolm and Nicola end up locked in a cupboard at the Christmas party. It's all a lot less sexy than it sounds.
Relationships: Nicola Murray/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 35
Kudos: 66





	Party Down

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written The Thick of It fic, so I'm still working on their voices. That being said, I'm pretty happy with how this turned out :)

The night of the party Christmas ball is only Malcolm’s second most hated evening of the year, miles behind the fucking party conference ball when he has a bunch of drunken apes letting loose and shacking up with each other to deal with. At least here they all drag their spouses along and mostly end up going home with the right person. Much less clean up to be done.

He is lurking by the bar, sipping at a single malt and wishing he could just strap the bottle to his arm and stick a curly straw in it to save time. His bow tie is tight around his neck and he tugs at his collar, eying up a junior minister from the transport department who’s getting just a little bit too handsy with some of the hired help. One more fucking fingernail out of place and he’ll have to go over and garrote the bastard with his own intestines. Every fucking year the junior ministers and the advisors get the speech, to watch where they put their hands and not end up giving him half a dozen harassment suits to deal with on New Year’s Day, and every fucking year at least one of them steps out of line. Maybe he needs to start carrying their heads round on a fucking pike to hammer his point home. 

Lucky for Junior, one of the transport spads grabs him and drags him away from the waitress, and then turns him around to point out where Malcolm is standing at the bar. Junior goes pale as Malcolm raises his glass, grinning. 

“Exactly what sort of kink is it where you get off on people being so scared of you they shit themselves?” 

Nicola Murray has appeared at his side, her own glass of whisky in hand. Malcolm turns his head slightly, just enough to get an eyeful of middle aged tit. 

“Could you have found a lower cut dress? You look like you’ve stopped in on the way to your fucking shift in Soho.”

“Charming. This was a very expensive dress, I’ll have you know. And it isn’t low cut. It’s tasteful.”

“Aye, if your idea of tasteful is whatever you can drag out of the back of Lily Savage’s wardrobe.”

Nicola just laughs, and Malcolm isn’t sure what he feels about that. 

“Do you want me to stand here and spot interlopers with you?” she asks, sipping at her drink. “God knows I don’t have anything else to do.”

Malcolm’s ears prick up. 

“Where’s the husband then?”

“I didn’t invite him,” Nicola says, matter of fact, and keeps going even when Malcolm turns to look at her properly. Not many people keep talking when he gives them the look.  
“The last thing any of us want - me, you and possibly the world at large - is my husband let loose in a room full of free alcohol and gorgeous women in beautiful dresses. He’s away with work, unavoidable clash.”

Malcolm eyes her knuckles which are white around her glass, the hard set line of her mouth. He had no idea her marriage was in such a mess. 

“Well hallefuckinglujah that you had a sensible thought for once in your life. One less job for me.”

At that moment, his phone rings and while he’s fumbling for it, Nicola reaches over and takes his glass from his hand before he can drop it. Too much whisky and he’s all fucking thumbs. This is why he doesn’t drink. The backs of her fingers brush his and he twitches so hard he almost drops the thing anyway. 

“Tucker.”

“Malcolm, we’ve got a problem.”

It’s Sam, of course. 

“Alright. Hit me.”

He turns away from Nicola and cradles his forehead in his hand. Christ, his headache already feels like Fat Pat is tap dancing on his skull in stilettos. 

“The Mirror has got hold of babygate and they’re threatening to spill it unless we can give them something better.”

“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. Which fucking bastard has shot their load?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but the only person I thought knew apart from you, me and the PM was Claude.”

“Fucking - who the fuck is Claude?”

“The driver. The one who took him to the hospital. Remember? He quit a few weeks later.”

“Fucking Claude,” Malcolm growls, his teeth grinding. “I’m going to hunt him down and cut him open and stuff my Waitrose five bird roast into his bladder.” 

Nicola chuckles and Malcolm resists the urge to throw his phone at her head. 

“I can use the files to kill this before it gets out,” Sam says, soothing. No one else is allowed to use that tone with him. “But you need to warn the PM in case there is any fall out. And we need to find Claude as soon as we can.”

“You’re an angel, darling,” Malcolm says. “Let me know when you’ve twisted the right arm. Fucking snap it in half if you need to. And tell John Gallagher that if he fucking publishes I’ll cut off his cock and giftwrap it for his mother to open on Christmas Day. With a little bow and everything around his balls.”

“Alright. Try not to have a stroke. This is fine. We’ve got plenty of ammo for The Mirror.”

Malcolm hangs up and presses his fingers into his eyes. If he just pressed a little bit harder, maybe he’d push all the way through and give himself a lobotomy. That would be nice. 

“You look like you need to finish this.”

Bloody Nicola Murray.

She nudges his hand with his glass and, although a part of him wants to tell her to piss off back to the brothel she obviously crawled out of, the other bit really wants the drink. So he takes it, and throws it back. 

“You better have this one too,” she says, holding out her own glass. It’s warm in his hand and he doesn’t even think as he puts it to his mouth, but it’s warm too where her lips have been touching it. A smear of purple lipstick on the rim. He scrubs at his mouth as he slams the glass down on the bar. 

“You, with me,” he says, before he can change his mind. He’s going to need some help here. 

For once in her life, Nicola doesn’t ask stupid questions. In fact, like a blessed Christmas miracle, she doesn’t even say anything as he marches out of the room. Just follows, her heels tapping along the floor. Christ, he must be desperate if he’s looking to her of all people for help.

The corridor outside the main room isn’t as quiet as he’d like. Give a fucking junior minister or a backbencher an inch and they’d take a bloody mile, and most of that mile will be filled with illicit fumbling of colleagues and lines of coke in the toilets. 

“All of you, fuck off now!” Malcolm roars, and the dozen people sucking each others’ faces off scatter. 

“In here,” he says, dragging open the door of a cleaning cupboard and stepping in. Nicola pauses on the threshold and he remembers too late that she doesn’t like small spaces, but the room is decently sized and so in she comes, pulling the door shut behind her. 

“I must say, Malcolm, it really is exciting to see you in action when you aren’t threatening to kill me in whatever creative way your word a day calendar suggests for you.”

“Shut it,” he says, sitting down on an upturned bucket. “Here’s what I need and God help me, apart from Sam, you’re all I’ve got. My boys are all out there completely wankered and more useless than a cactus dildo.”

So he tells her, all about the PM and the secret fucking baby by the secret fucking mistress, and he doesn’t even care that her eyes light up at the thought Tom has really cocked it up this time. He couldn’t care less if she tried to come for his blood, as long as Malcolm doesn’t have to stand there and hold the towel to soak it up. He’s almost done with the bastard. 

“So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Claude. Did you know him? The driver?”

“I think so. At least, I usually have Elvis. But I remember Claude. Big man, unfortunate hairline.”

“Like fucking Humpty Dumpty, that’s the one. He’s in the wind and I need to find him. Now. But I also need to go and tear Tom a new arsehole, and then go to check on Sam. Can you possibly manage the easy job and find the bastard?”

“I’m not Poirot, you know,” Nicola says, her voice grating on his ears. He clenches his hands into fists. “But luckily for you, I happen to have Elvis’ number on my phone and he knows everything. I’m sure he’ll be a good start.”

“Great,” Malcolm stands up, presses a hand to his forehead. Sam hasn’t called back. He needs to find Tom and get him home, just in case The Mirror is sending one of the bottom feeders to sniff around outside. He goes to the door, phone already in hand, and then stops dead. 

“Oh fuck me.”

“What?” Nicola looks up from where she is already scrolling through her phone. 

“There’s no fucking handle on the inside,” he says, kicking the door so hard that his toe feels like it’s snapped off in his brogue. “Shit a brick.”

“Oh - oh no.” Nicola sinks down onto the bucket he’s just vacated, and starts to fumble in her bag. She’s already panting, like a Grand National horse and not one of the winners. One of the poor sods that gets the bullet at the end of the race.

“Alright, Miss Marple. Calm down. Take your rescue remedy, if your fairy Glenn-mother remembered to pack it for you. I’ll get us out of here, alright? Alright?”

He hesitates, puts out a hand to grip her shoulder. Which is bare, and he curls his fingers tightly before giving in and touching her. He doesn’t even snap when she puts her own hand up to cover his.

“I’ll be alright. It isn’t that small. I was alright, till just now. I’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t sound like it, but he doesn’t exactly have time to deal with hysterics right now. She sucks down the rescue remedy then, to his surprise, picks up her phone again. 

“You get on,” she says, voice shaking. “Hurry the fuck up, and get us out of here. I’ll call Elvis.”

He doesn’t need telling. He’s already dialling Sam while he’s pounding on the door like fucking Fred Flintstone, cursing the ministers he sent running just a few minutes before. Sam is engaged, so he calls Tom. Tom doesn’t fucking answer, because of course he doesn’t, so he calls Sam again. Engaged. 

Nothing for it. There’s only one person who might not make disgusting allegations about him and Nicola bloody Murray stuck in a cupboard.

“Malc, how can I help you? Have you left the party already?”

“Julius, shut up and listen. I’m stuck in a fucking cupboard out in the corridor, third door from the left by the men’s toilet.”

“Oh. Why are you telling me about that?”

“Just get out here and open the door, Julius, or I’ll make it my personal mission in life to pluck every last hair out of your head and knit a fucking scarf from them.”

Julius has the audacity to laugh, but the music blaring down the phone does at least go quieter so he must be on his way. Malcolm looks around to check that Nicola hasn’t fainted on him. She’s pale, her hands shaking, as she writes a text message. It must be the whisky that makes Malcolm reach out and tip her head back, almost gentle, so she’s looking up at him. 

“You alright?”

She nods, waving her phone at him.

“Elvis just told me where Claude’s mother lives. Says he stays with her most of the time.”

“Good girl,” Malcolm murmurs. 

“Good girl, Malc?” Julius says. “Who are you with?”

“None of your fucking business, and if you don’t hurry up it will be your ginger pubes in that scarf as well.”

“Such a delightful image. Alright, I’m here.”

Julius hangs up, and then the door creaks open. Before he can poke his baldy head in, Malcolm grabs it and blocks the way, so Julius can’t see Nicola perched on her bucket like a garden gnome. 

“Alright, thank you. Good job, Batman. You can fuck off now. I owe you a latte or whatever piss you drink, alright?”

Julius is three sheets to the wind, which is good news, because he might not even remember this tomorrow. He grins at Malcolm, punches him playfully on the arm. 

“Alright, I won’t pry. Honestly, Malcolm, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Fuck off. Now. And if you see Tom, tell him I’m looking for him.”

He watches as Julius trots off down the corridor and waits till he’s safely through the doors. 

“Alright, he’s gone,” he says, turning back. Nicola is standing right behind him, so close that he can see the blobs of mascara at the corners of her eyes. 

“Christ! Can you give me some space, woman?”

“Sorry, I just - needed to see the outside. I’m alright now.”

She does look better, got some of the colour back in her cheeks, and he lets her out. Honestly, she handled that a lot better than he was expecting. 

“I’ve texted you what Elvis told me,” she says. “I hope it helps.”

She actually means it too. Soft, soppy cow. 

“Yeah, well, thanks. Sorry. About the cupboard.” 

“It is really alright,” she says, squeezing his elbow. “You better get on. I think I’m done for the evening.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Tell Elvis I owe him one. Find out what he drinks, will ya?”

And then he’s off, jogging up the corridor back to the party and wherever Tom is hiding. His elbow is burning where she touched him, and he rubs at it. 

When he turns around at the door to look back at her, she is rubbing her hands together in just the same way.


End file.
